"A little while ago. He wrote—he wrote my mother a letter. It was at the post office this morning."
"He did? He didn't! The low-lived scamp!"
"Hush! Don't talk about him. Yes, he wrote her. Such a letter! She showed it to me. So full of hypocrisy, and lies and—oh, can't you imagine what it was?"
Kendrick's right fist tapped the table gently. "I guess likely I can," he said, grimly. "Well, some of these days I may run afoul of Egbert again. When I do——" The fist closed a little tighter.
"You won't touch him. Promise me you won't. If you should, I—— Oh, dear! I think I should be afraid to touch your hands afterwards."
Sears smiled. "It might be safer to use my boot," he admitted. "Your mother—how is she?"
"Can't you imagine? I think—I hope it is her pride that is hurt more than anything. For some little time—well, ever since I found out that she was lending him money—I have done my best to make her see what he really is. But before that—oh, there is no use pretending, for you know—she was insane about him. And now, with the shock and the disillusionment and the shame, she is—— Oh, it is dreadful!"
"Do the—er—rest of 'em over there know it yet?"
"No, but they will very soon. And when they do! You know what some of them are, what they will say. We can't stay there, mother and I. We must go away—and we will."
She was crying, and if ever a man yearned for the rôle of comforter, Sears Kendrick was that man. He tried to say something, but he was afraid to trust his own tongue; it might run away with him. And before his attempt was at all coherent, she went on.